Into the Silent Sea
by P.S. Speare
Summary: Historical AU. Sequel to 'Upon a Painted Ocean'. Schuldich stows away on an unknown ship, unaware that her captain, Crawford, will change his life in ways he's never conceived. (Brad/Schu, Ran/Ken, Youji/Omi)
1. The Art of Betrayal

Author's Notes: Hello, and welcome! A few months ago, I posted a teaser titled '_The Art of Betrayal_', which has now become the prologue to this story, _'Into the Silent Sea_'. I had offered a giftfic to the 1000th visitor of my humble little archive, and Rachel, the winner, requested that I write a Brad/Schu centered sequel to '_Upon a Painted Ocean_'. Thus, here it is - a story dedicated to Rachel. I would highly recommended reading its predecessor if this story is to make sense, since it is alternate universe and makes references to events that have nothing to do with what we know of the characters. Other that, enjoy the new adventure! ^_^

(***)

_Into the Silent Sea  
Prologue: The Art of Betrayal_

(***) 

_Port city of Marseilles, France  
1593_

He heard shouts, thunderous, booming shouts that echoed through the squeaking boards overhead, and undoubtedly throughout the whole ship. Wide, emerald eyes looked upward and strained against the dank darkness of the hold in an unconscious bid to discern what was happening above deck. But not surprisingly, all that greeted his efforts was the continued obscurity of his unfamiliar environment.

He didn't like this.

He hated this uncertainty and this unawareness of his surroundings.

But then again, it was better than where he had been.

Even now, the filth and stench of the Marseilles underworld clung to his body like a damn plague, thoroughly saturating his tattered clothing and suffusing into every pore of his skin. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever be clean again, no matter how much soap and water he might one day have the luxury of using.

Christ's Blood, when was the last time he'd worn clothing that wasn't threadbare and didn't stink of human refuse? When was the last time he could actually see the creamy paleness of his own skin beneath all this dirt? When was the last time he'd had somewhere warm and safe to sleep?

Days? Weeks? Months?

Time had colluded into an endless cycle of slumber and wakefulness for him, intermittently sprinkled with the few necessary acts of survival. Had someone told him a year ago that he would've been relegated into living such a pathetic existence, he would've laughed off the very notion, and easily dispatched that person to his Maker without a second thought.

But now, faced with the harsh reality of his circumstances, he honestly couldn't make himself care. The only thing that concerned him was the fact that he was free ... free to live his life away from the heavy scrutiny of his youth, and to explore the world to his heart's content, which was the very reason he had stowed away on this ship.

He had arrived in Marseilles just a couple of weeks ago, road weary, hungry, and without a single denier to his name. It hadn't taken him long to seek out the lower elements of the city's underground society, asking, begging, and outright stealing the necessities of food, clothing, and shelter. It had been much the same in the other cities he had visited in his travels: the same old fight to find his daily bread, the same old fight to merely stay alive. So when a scraggily, swarthy man named Renard had offered him food in exchange for a small favour, he had readily agreed.

His sojourn through the roads of Europe must've softened him too much because oddly enough, he had actually believed his shifty-eyed so-called benefactor's offer. Or now that he thought about it, perhaps it had been the hunger pains that had caused the momentary lapse in judgment. After filching the fancy ring from that rich bloke as Renard had asked, he had expected his payment like those despicable naïve children he'd once scoffed. Instead, he'd been shoved into a room, and attacked by his very employer.

Betrayed.

As he had always been.

He could still feel Renard's bony hand grasping him, holding him down while his other hand eagerly worked at the drawstring of his pants. Only his continued resistance and a well-placed rum bottle to the older man's head had allowed him to get away relatively intact. But that was not to say that he'd escaped.

No, far from it. He knew that Renard was a fairly powerful man in the criminal underworld, and to knock him unconscious meant an almost guaranteed act of retaliation.

Thus, he had ran, ran until his breath scorched his throat, until his heart threatened to leap out of his chest, and until he had no more land to run on. The docks of Marseilles were something he had become familiar with during his brief stay, having had to sleep there for several nights in that time, and the looming ship with her towering topsails and proud foremast that he had stumbled upon had seemed the perfect solution in his time of need.

Escape. Freedom. An incredible journey to the ends of the earth ... the vessel practically screamed an invitation in his ears.

And so, he had snuck on board, finding a gap between the loading of the cargo and pre-departure preparations when he could run up the gangplank and hide away in the hold.

Now, sitting restlessly behind a wooden crate, he wondered when the ship would cast off and leave Renard behind, leave Marseilles behind ... leave Europe behind.

He smirked whimsically as an image of an outraged Renard came to mind; the man would probably shout a string of French curses that would paint the air blue once he found out that his quarry had left the continent. In many ways, that man reminded him of his Uncle Friedrich, though in attitude more than appearance.

Ah, yes, good old Uncle Friedrich ... the dear, beloved uncle who had invited him into his chambers when he had been but the tender age of eleven, forced him down on his knees, and taught him what was required of a dutiful nephew. But whereas Renard had been crude and unsophisticated in his advances, Uncle Friedrich had been considerate enough to give him a cushion to kneel on while he was made to suck on the older man's cock. When he'd finally been old enough to realize what his own relation had made him do, and had refused to continue, the man had been outraged.

To this day, he vividly remembered Uncle Friedrich's temper, even though the physical scars had long healed.

One would think that he had learned from his dear uncle about the wicked art of betrayal that dominated the real world, but apparently, he'd been denser than he'd thought because he'd accepted Renard's offer without question. He would have to watch himself from now on.

A sudden lurch in his surroundings abruptly cut his reminiscing short. Eagerness and anticipation danced merrily in his chest as he heard the welcomed keening of the hull and the distinct flapping of the canvas sails. 

They were leaving!

An almost ecstatic smile broke on his grime-smudged face at the very prospect. He patiently waited - or rather, 'semi-patiently' waited since he had never been a patient man by nature - and fought the urge to shout in celebration when he felt the boards beneath him begin to sway rhythmically.

He tried to sit still, tried and failed because after what seemed like an eternity, he finally gave into the need to see the disappearing shoreline. Quietly as he could, he made his way over to the ladder and cautiously climbed out of the hold. Curious green eyes peeked out from the hatch, and were painfully blinded by the overwhelming brightness of the late afternoon sun. After a brief moment of adjustment, he carefully opened his eyes wider without discomfort and made certain no sailor - or worse yet, the captain - was around.

No one.

He was close enough to the captain's quarters that he would be cast into shadow if he stayed in this corner of the main deck behind the water barrels. Who'd see him if he just took a quick peek at the continent that had been his home his entire life? He'd take one small glance and hurry back into the hold - no harm done. Besides, the only thing truly noticeable about him was his bright orange-red hair, and even that was now a shade of muted brown thanks to the days of filth it had accumulated.

Darting the five feet from the hatch to the side rail, he turned his eyes upon the horizon, his gaze alighting on the diminishing shoreline of Marseilles's Vieux Port. Mentally, he bid a fond farewell to the hated place; somehow, he felt much lighter in leaving rather than experiencing the heavy burden of sadness one might expect in departing the land of one's youth.

"'ey, what 'ave we 'ere?" A rough hand that literally grabbed him by the scruff of his neck accompanied the scratchy voice. "A stowaway?"

He jerked and fought to get away from the ruffian who'd so unceremoniously waylaid him, but one well-placed punch quieted him easily. As he fell heavily to the boards, dazed and stinging from the unseen hit, thickly muscled arms grabbed him from behind and effectively immobilized him.

"Get the captain!" he heard his captor shout. "We've found ourselves a stowaway."

He felt the man's chest rumble with amused laughter as he leaned forward to whisper, "And ye know what we do with stowaways? We toss 'em o'erboard."

Again, the burly sailor laughed as his smaller captive stiffened.

He'd be thrown overboard? No, not yet! He hadn't had the chance to taste real freedom yet ... he hadn't had a chance to do anything yet!

"What's going on here? Where's the stowaway?" The crisp educated voice reached his ears before he caught sight of the man stepping purposefully down from the quarterdeck. He discreetly looked the new arrival up and down: polished black boots, fine dark breeches, and an expensive-looking white lawn shirt - this was undoubtedly the captain, he concluded.

"Interesting," the said man noted with an apathetic air as he stepped closer to observe the caught culprit.

The stowaway looked up, and his breath nearly caught at the intensity of the golden eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. Locks of ebony hair fluttered freely in the sea breeze, each strand moving in almost perfect unison with the others as if the captain himself had willed them into compliance. If anything, this man simply exuded authority.

"Do you know what I do with stowaways on my ship?" the dark-haired man asked, leaning closer so he could catch the captive's gaze.

Defiant green eyes glared back. "Clothe them in your best finery and invite them to stay for dinner?" the stowaway answered caustically.

If the brief twitch of the captain's lips could've been called an emotion, then the immobilized captive would've guessed that he'd amused the other man. 

"Not even close," came the brunette's response. "We throw them overboard."

Suddenly, he felt the arms holding him tighten, as if the sailor who had caught him was overly eager to perform the duty. And yet, he didn't say anything, or do anything; he merely stared back at those brilliant, golden eyes - cold and distant, but still powerful enough to render a smaller mortal speechless.

He didn't back down. He refused to, because if there was one thing he'd retained from his previous life, it was the necessity of his arrogance. Without it, he would be nothing ... lost, lonely, and scared - something he had promised himself that would never come to pass. Precarious as his situation was, he held his head high and waited regally for the vessel's captain to officially announce the sentence.

'I dare you,' the captive's sparkling eyes said. 'Betray me ... betray me as they've all betrayed me. Show me that you're like the rest of them ... '

The dark-haired man crossed his arms, a look of assessment on his face as he analyzed the spirit in his stowaway for an instance that stretched toward oblivion as the captive's silent challenge echoed between them. And then, with finality, the brunette said, "I could use another deckhand." 

After a quick nod from the captain, the recently caught man felt the sailor behind him release his hold. He tested his newfound freedom for a brief moment before turning a questioning gaze to his impromptu saviour.

"My name's Crawford and this is my ship, the Valiant," the captain explained. "You will address me as 'Captain' from here on in. My word is law aboard this ship, and if you ever disobey my orders by even one letter, I assure you that the consequences could be fatal. Understood?"

Emerald eyes narrowed at being issued such a threat, but slowly, and reluctantly, the stowaway nodded.

"Good. Now go get cleaned up and report to the first mate. The crew quarters are up by the forecastle," Crawford added, and turned to head back up to the quarterdeck.

The ship's newest addition turned too, an inexplicable energy simmering in his stomach at the future that had just been given to him as he started to make his way toward the bow. Why the man had let him stay, he didn't know and didn't care; he would question it later. All that mattered now was that he could.

"Crewman!"

The captain's strong voice stopped him in his tracks. With a nervousness he dared not show, he twisted around to face the man who'd just ascended the first step of the quarterdeck stairs.

"What's your name?"

The stowaway smirked at the question, his answer having already been created the day he had left the so-called home of his youth.

"Schuldich," he replied with a mocking bow. "Simply Schuldich. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cap-tain." He drawled the last word as if to publicly display his hatred of authority.

True to form, Crawford paid him no mind and continued his short trek up the stairs.

And so, with that, Schuldich turned away smiling, heading toward the crew's quarters ... and the whole new world that awaited him.

End Prologue


	2. Past and Prologue

_Historical Notes:_

_Port Royal, Jamaica_: (Taken from notes written in 'Upon a Painted Ocean') Known as 'one of the wickedest places on earth', Port Royal was a nesting ground for criminals and the lower element when it was first established around 1650. The city has a disaster-ridden history. Originally governed by the Spanish, it was taken over by Admiral Penn and General Venables of England in 1655, a gain for the British as Spain slowly lost its monopoly on the Americas. However, on June 7, 1692, an earthquake that sent half the town beneath the seas hit Port Royal, providing the basis for wonderful stories of sunken pirate treasure since this place was rumoured to be where pirates stored their loot. Although it was rebuilt, disastrous fires in 1704 destroyed most of the city again, leaving nothing but old forts standing. For the purpose of this story, I've taken the liberty of playing with history and have established Port Royal as a city 50 years sooner than it's supposed to be (the story takes place in 1597, but I thought the city suited my needs so I used it!).

_Valencia, Spain_: During the fifteenth century, the city of Valencia experienced an unparalleled period of economic prosperity due to rapid development in agricultural and industrial production, which made it one of the major trade centers of the Mediterranean. In fact, during the reign of Alfons the Magnanimous, the city was considered one of the richest capitals of Europe. However, in the time that this story is set, economic turmoil had began to set in since Valencian bankers and merchants griped to the Spanish Crown about not being reimbursed for funding the discovery of the Americas, a problem that would indirectly lead to the war known as the 'Guerras de Germaines'. Therefore, the conversation that Schuldich overhears is not entirely unbelievable since money and the Americas were a primary concern for Valencian residents. Of another note is La Lonya (or the 'Silk Market') situated in the Plaza del Mercado. Built in 1483 by Pere Compte, it consisted of three parts - the market, the interior garden, and the consulate - and was intended to be a center for sea trade.

_The Myth of the Fountain of Youth_: The Fountain of Youth myth may be found in the folklore of many ethnic cultures of Europe and the Middle East, some associated with the Prester John myth of Ethiopia (thus, I didn't see any harm in Crawford hearing about it), and some even saying that Alexander the Great had actually found it. The European myth talks of fabled miraculous waters that preserved life and renewed vigor, the tale likely a fusion of the ancient Hindi myth of a magical fountain that could restore men to their prime, and the Semitic legend of the Lost River of Immortality. Once Europeans started trading with the East, it was very likely that the tale spread and became distorted.

_Don Juan Ponce de Leon:_ Upon hearing the indigenous people of the New World claim that the Fountain of Youth existed in the Americas, a Spanish explorer and aristocrat by the name of Don Juan Ponce de Leon became intrigued. When his king heard of this as well, he immediately ordered de Leon to lay claim to the Fountain for the Spanish Crown. In 1513, de Leon commenced his first journey with three personally provisioned ships, and in his pursuit of the Fountain, inadvertently discovered Florida. When he first landed in Florida, he met with the native Calusa Indians who seemed docile at first but who then turned hostile. Scared for his life, de Leon buried his personal fortune of gold and jewels, and fled to Puerto Rico with his crew. In 1521, Charles V commissioned de Leon to set up a colony in La Florida and again, the Calusa Indians attacked, wiping out the colony, and wounding de Leon. With only six survivors, the Spanish aristocrat sailed to Cuba where they all died. The Fountain of Youth was never found and de Leon's treasure was never recovered.

_The British colony of Virginia:_ 'Virginia' was the name that England's Elizabeth I gave to the land that Sir Walter Raleigh discovered in 1584. In May of 1607, three British merchant ships (Susan Constant, Godspeed, and Discovery) reached Virginia carrying men and boys. In 1619, the first women and slaves arrived. This is probably where I've taken the most licenses with history. In the context of this story, the year would've been approximately 1578 for Crawford's family to be firmly established in a plantation when he was a child, a good six years _before_ Raleigh's discovery of Virginia and almost forty years before the arrival of the first slaves. But I needed a catalyst for this story's plot so I've taken the liberty of altering history! ^_^

(***)

_Into the Silent Sea  
Chapter 1: Past and Prologue_

(***)

_Port Royal, Jamaica  
1597_

"Double or nothing."

Complete silence greeted the casually spoken words as hefty, bearded men and lusty, half-naked tavern wenches alike froze at the arrogance and audacity of the blonde who'd just challenged the most vicious looking man in the room.

Ken sat straighter in his rickety chair and turned shocked brown eyes toward his crewmate. Youji didn't even spare him a glance as he nonchalantly waited for a reply to his offer, amused half-smile on his lips and twinkling green gaze on the barrel-chested man across from him. With his sun-spun hair of burnished gold tied back loosely and his open collar lawn shirt sitting lazily on his wiry frame, the blonde cut enough of a dashing figure to attract every female in the room - as apparently the heaving bosoms that had gravitated toward him had proven - but staring at the man, Ken would've liked nothing better than to give the self-assured ass a good swift kick.

'What in the world is the idiot doing?' he wondered, eyes still riveted on his companion's reclined figure. Ran had explicitly ordered them to come to this tavern, bargain with one-eyed Maven for some important document, and leave without any trouble. Even when they'd discovered that said one-eyed Maven stood a looming head taller than the both of them and had a penchant for gambling, they had remembered their captain's commands. That was why they'd started the card game in the first place - to obtain that wanted piece of parchment from Maven fairly and legitimately, or as fairly and legitimately as a band of pirates could make it.

But now ... now Youji had undoubtedly irked their opponent with his ill-conceived challenge and that 'without any trouble' order Ran had issued was as good as disobeyed. Of everyone in the tavern, only he and Youji hailed from the Redemption, while it seemed as if Maven's entire crew had decided to partake of Port Royal's shady hospitality with their captain.

Youji had definitely chosen the wrong time to do this.

The silence perhaps lasted but a brief moment, and yet, in that one fleeting second, Ken heard a chair scrape, a corset rustle, a man cough, and his own heart accelerate. It felt as if all stimuli around him had amplified, assaulting his already strained senses and pushing them beyond their limits. He registered the glaring midday sun that shone through the open entrance, he smelled the stagnant odour of fermenting ale and sweating bodies, he felt the rivulets of perspiration that glided down his back, and he literally tasted the tension that had thickened the air.

Never had Ken regretted leaving his weapon behind more than that very moment.

Then, a deep-throated laugh echoed throughout the room, spurring the scene back into motion as if nothing had ever occurred. And suddenly, Ken discovered that he could breathe again. He quickly pulled his eyes away from Youji, across the scarred wooden table, and to the man on his right who'd diffused the whole situation with his amusement.

Maven leaned forward in his chair and glared at Youji with his one good eye, dark greasy locks of shoulder-length hair swinging forward as he did so. "Ye must really want this thing, then?" the pirate asked in a scratchy voice, his words slightly slurred by the inordinate amount of ale he'd just consumed.

Youji remained as carefree and as charming as when he'd first stepped into the place, and Ken had to give the man credit for masking any nervousness he might have felt. The pirate was reputed for taking victim ships without quarter or survivors, and just by sitting at the same table as Maven, Ken sensed the threatening presence that emanated from the outlaw. He couldn't imagine what Youji must be feeling, staring that weather-beaten face dead on.

The blonde straightened and glanced down at the cards on the table. "It's not so much a matter of wanting as it is a matter of my wounded pride," he said in a cultured tone. Then, with that same unwavering half-smile still in place, he looked up. "What do you say, Maven? Another game, double or nothing this time."

Ken thought he heard two feminine sighs following Youji's daring words, indication enough that the man had a natural magnetism for the fairer sex. The brunette almost rolled his eyes.

Did females actually like this type of man?

In Ken's opinion, the man was nothing but a foolish, albeit charming, reprobate who was taunting one of the most dangerous men this side of the hemisphere. And women found this idiocy attractive?

Maven's chuckle once again brought Ken out of his musings. After giving Youji another quick assessment, the dark pirate smirked. "As ye know, I'm a gamblin' man. But let me ask ye this, ye dandified whelp, what're ye goin' to bet? I've cleaned ye clear out."

Ken looked back at Youji, wondering how the blonde would respond. Maven had a point: when they'd decided to challenge the outlaw to a game, he'd given the blonde the sum of their money as well as his faith. Admittedly - and for good reason - Ken didn't gamble, and didn't even know how to play.

Youji widened his smile and nodded knowingly as if he'd already thought about that obstacle. "On the contrary," he said good-naturedly. "I still have something of value."

Maven raised the eyebrow over his patched eye, willing to take the bait. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"Him." Youji nodded in Ken's direction so easily that the brunette wondered if he'd heard right.

Him? Had the blonde just put him up as ante?

This was beyond unbelievable!

Instantly, the offended man clenched his hands into fists, ready to knock some sense into his own crewmate. 

Captain's orders, be damned. No one, absolutely no one, had the right to play with his life like that. The past seven months as the Redemption's first mate had taught him that much.

"Done."

The gruff reply from the hardened pirate stilled Ken's impulsive action before he even had a chance to stand. He glanced helplessly over at Maven, who was giving him an appraising look.

"I could use 'nother able body on m'ship. The last raid, I 'ad to rid meself of two men 'cause them bastards were too soft when it came to killin'."

At this, the brunette turned and glared angrily at his blond companion. 

'What have you gotten me into?' his look practically demanded.

Youji kept his infuriating smile in place. 'Relax. I know what I'm doing,' the blonde's expression replied.

Ken seethed. When they went back to the Redemption - or rather,_ if_ they made it back to the Redemption - he'd personally tie the feckless man to the foremast and flay him alive!

"Same rules as before," Youji said in his obscenely eloquent tone as he moved to shuffle and deal the cards. "You win, you get Ken. I win, I get my money back and the document."

Maven nodded as he eased into a more comfortable position in his chair and grabbed his dealt cards off the table.

Thus, the game progressed, the tension that had dissipated earlier now beginning to build up again as both players maintained a stony façade throughout their cards' assessment. Ken watched with helpless fury as barely two words were exchanged and cards were thrown across the money-covered game field. He didn't understand how the game was played but even so, he definitely understood his life was at stake and that was enough to make every move more important than it already was. The first thing he needed to do when he got out of this was learn how to gamble. As much as he detested the idea, learning the craft would ensure that he wouldn't be put into this kind of situation again.

Suddenly, the one-eyed pirate's frustrated grunt drew Ken's attention back to the game at hand. Although he could not decipher the meaning of the cards laying face up on the table, he could easily read Maven's dark glare and Youji's triumphant smile.

For the second time in the past hour, Ken felt an unabashed flood of relief wash through his body. Eagerly, he stood up to gather the money Youji had lost in the previous games, and casually tossed the blonde his lost portion when he did so, inwardly grateful that the nervousness and anxiety he'd felt earlier didn't visibly show. Once he'd re-collected their funds, he turned serious brown eyes onto the greasy-haired pirate whose sour look more than emphasized his displeasure at the loss.

"The document, if you will," Ken stated solemnly.

Grumbling, Maven reached into his less-than-clean shirt and managed to extract a piece of brown folded parchment out of nowhere. Even from where he was standing, Ken could smell the rancid odour of unwashed clothing and days old sweat emanate from the outlaw as he was handed the prize. The brunette tried not to gag as he took the offered thing, gave a pleasant acknowledging nod, and turned toward Youji.

The blonde stood, and gestured toward the exit with a slight tilt of his head. For once, Ken couldn't have agreed with the older man more, and after tucking the procured document into the pocket that lined the inside of his vest, he started toward the opening. Youji fell in step with him fairly quickly, and as both men exited the seedy establishment, Ken let his stiff muscles relax.

He squinted his eyes until they adjusted to the bright sunlight, and let out a cleansing breath.

"We're not completely free yet," Youji mumbled to his companion.

"What?" Ken glanced over at the blonde and it was then that he noticed the other man's still tensed posture and quick gait.

"Youji?" Suspicious brown eyes bore into the tall blonde.

"Run," Youji whispered.

"What?"

"I cheated. They'll figure that out soon. Now, run!" And with that, the man pushed off and began weaving through the crowded streets of Port Royal.

Mouth agape, Ken watched in shocked confusion as his companion left him. What in the world ... ?

And then, Ken heard it - the angry shouts and breaking wood coming from the tavern they'd just left.

Bloody hell!

He didn't think. He just reacted and did exactly what Youji had done - he ran away from the place as if the hounds of Hell were at his heels.

(***)

Ran heard Ken before he even saw him.

Sitting behind his desk and attempting to make the numbers from the Redemption's latest run balance, the young redheaded captain was more than receptive to an interruption ... _any_ interruption. Give him a storm at sea and he would smile in the face of Mother Nature. Give him a ship full of bloodthirsty pirates and he would be more than in his element. But give him a ledger with rows and columns of numbers to balance and he squirmed as much as an eel out of water. Thus, when the floorboards outside the captain's cabin began to shake from the stomping footsteps of an angry crewman, Ran immediately dropped his quill and looked expectantly at the door.

"Here's your damn document!"

As eager as he had been for distraction, the redhead was not prepared for the angry brunette who stormed into the room without a by-your-leave. Ken stood before the desk, breaths heavy and body sweaty, as he carelessly tossed a piece of folded parchment onto the hated ledger. And for a moment, Ran was entranced by the earthy grace and beauty that radiated from the man's sleekly muscled arms and slightly bared chest. That was, until he looked higher up and noticed the murderous scowl on his first mate's face.

"I certainly hope that thing is worth all the trouble I went through to get it," Ken added as the sitting captain began to unravel the item on his desk. "What's so important about it that I had to risk my life for it?"

Ran kept his gaze on the document he was unfolding, for some reason, frightened that he would become ensnared in the younger man's spell again if he looked up. For a full seven months, Ken had been on board the Redemption as his first mate, and although the captain had grown accustomed to having the brunette at his side, there were still moments when he could be rendered completely speechless in his crewman's presence. The only thing to do at times like these was to hide his temporary loss of composure until it disappeared.

"I'm assuming it's quite important," Ran answered as he made a show of perusing the meticulously inked lines on the now open parchment.

"You're assuming?!"

The redhead looked up just in time to watch Ken roll his eyes in exasperation.

"I could've been killed for an assumption? What, pray tell, Captain, did this assumption that is worth my life pertain to?"

The first mate's angry sarcasm was not lost on the young captain. During the past seven months, Ken had changed, his eyes less shadowed and his steps lighter ... as if the weight of the past had been lifted from his shoulders. But also in that time, Ran had discovered the younger man's temper, and as endearing as that sometimes made the brunette, it was almost impossible to calm the man down through direct intervention.

Sighing inwardly, the young captain stood up and refolded the recently procured parchment. "It's a map," he supplied belatedly. "A close friend asked me to acquire it at any cost. What its purpose is and why it's coveted, I don't know." Seeing no visible reaction to his response, the redhead walked around his desk and stopped a mere step away from the angry first mate, leaning casually on the sturdy wood and crossing his arms as he did so. "Now, are you going to tell me what happened?"

Ken didn't answer immediately, and if Ran didn't know any better, he could've sworn that the brunette actually 'huffed'. 

Then, like a caged bird that had just been captured, the younger man began walking restlessly about the moderately sized cabin. Ran watched with a patient gaze as his companion paced the entire length of the room before stopping and answering.

"It was Youji," Ken said grudgingly. "The man actually had the nerve to wager me in exchange for that map! Can you believe it? You, of all people, should understand how much that affected me. It reminded me too much of ..."

Ken let the sentence trail off but he didn't have to finish for Ran to comprehend its meaning: it reminded the brunette too much of his father and his time with Crawford. At the thought, the redhead was grateful that he had never told Ken about his encounter with Crawford. If the younger man found out that he'd played with his life just as his father and Youji had all those months ago, he knew that Ken would never look at him the same way again.

"Why didn't you just order Youji to stop? You know you outrank him," the young captain asked in hopes of diffusing the atmosphere of regret and melancholy that hovered in the room. There was one thing he refused to be responsible for and it was bringing that sadness back into Ken's eyes.

"Christ's Blood, I know that!" Ken exclaimed. "But remember what happened in Puerto Rico the last time I tried to order him around?"

Ran's lips quirked up at the recollection. "If memory serves, you had a plump little blonde in your arms at the end of the night, didn't you?"

Deep brown eyes narrowed and pink lips thinned at the captain's insinuation. Ran called upon all his willpower to maintain a calm façade and not burst into laughter at the odd expression.

"As did you, Captain," the brunette threw back, nostrils flaring. "In fact, I think you might have ended up with two blondes that night. Am I correct?" 

At the comment, Ran let a good-natured chuckle escape and maintained a distant fond expression. "That I did, Ken. That I did."

Ran didn't try to defend himself. Never mind the fact that he had taken those two blondes up to a rented room and had let them go without ever touching them, it was all worth the defamation to his character when he had the opportunity to see Ken like this. Although it wouldn't have been visible to an outsider, Ran amusedly noted a hint of both possessiveness and jealousy in the brunette's tone.

At the redhead's airy reaction, Ken breathed another exasperated sigh. "This conversation is going nowhere," he said with finality. "I still have things to do so if you'd be so kind as to speak with Youji, Captain, I would be ever so grateful." With that, the brunette turned and stomped out the way he had come, his mood as irritable as when he'd first entered the room.

Ran shook his head and listened reflectively until the echo of the slamming door faded into silence. It would definitely be quite some time before Ken calmed down but it couldn't be helped, he guessed. At least the map had been retrieved. What he had told the first mate was the truth: he did not know what the thing was for, but he owed his friend a favour and if there was one thing he never reneged on, it was his debts.

Resignedly, the redhead finally pushed off his desk after a brief pause and tried to ready himself for another bout with his account books. Now that the pleasant distraction was over, he had nothing else to do but return to that draining task. Slowly, he walked back to his chair, sat down, and pulled the ledger closer for further inspection. Almost immediately, his mind began to wander. A long list of tasks yet to be done before setting sail - and images of the first mate who would help in its completion - flittered before his eyes ...

Damn!

Defeated, Ran rested his head on his desk.

He should've asked Ken to do the books when he'd had the chance.

(***)

_Valencia, Spain_

"The whole fortune, I tell ya ... Ol' man Sancho knew where it was and tol' the _capitán_ just afore he died. Was a part of de Leon's crew, Sancho was ... as a cabin boy over seventy years ago. Saw where the man buried 'is treasure, he did. Now the _capitán_ and us, we're sailing over and finding this treasure."

Schuldich took another sip of his wine as he listened halfheartedly to the three Spaniards sitting at the table behind him in the open-air marketplace of the Plaza del Mercado's La Lonya. The late afternoon sun beat lazily upon the busy merchants of the so-called 'Silk Market' but any uncomfortable heat that may have resulted was easily dispelled by the refreshing Mediterranean breezed that swept in from Valencia's port. All in all, Schuldich knew that the scene he resided in was a painter's depiction of an idyllic summer day, but even so, he couldn't seem to stop his nasty habit of eavesdropping long enough to enjoy it.

The guttural voice of the man he'd been overhearing and his own limited knowledge of the Spanish language made it difficult to understand what was being said, but he managed to catch the general meaning. Apparently, an unintelligent Spaniard by the name of Ponce de Leon had been ordered by the king to lay claim to some place called La Florida over seventy years ago. As luck would have it, the man had been met with hostile natives, and forced out of his own colony with all his men. But during that time, he had thought he was going to die and had buried all his treasure somewhere in the New World. Now, this captain that the Spaniard had mentioned was intent on finding it.

Schuldich sighed quietly, and took another sip of the sweet liquid in his hand.

Treasure hunting.

It had the potential to be quite enjoyable, he thought. Then, reality set in. He had promised himself over seven months ago that he would never step foot on another ship again ... not after what had happened on the Valiant ... not after Crawford. His relaxed look slowly gave way to something darker as he set his goblet down on the table before him and turned his right palm up. The burnt flesh had scarred over now, leaving a lasting imprint of a cross on the previously smooth skin and reminding him of the weakness he had given into not very long ago.

His very own cross to bear, seared into his soul as well as his flesh.

No, he would never step on board another ship again.

The past seven months had shown him the life he'd originally sought when he'd left home. He'd answered to no one, and with that freedom, he'd traversed the roads of Europe from Italy to Portugal without thinking of any yesterdays, or tomorrows. In the beginning, he had tried to go home - had traveled halfway there, in fact - but then, the screaming voices began to echo in his head, voices of men and women long dead, voices of those he had killed in cold blood ... And without thinking, he'd turned around and ran the other way, not knowing where he was going but not caring either.

The dead should remain dead, and that would only come to pass if he stayed away.

"But aren't you afraid of them pirates and privateers over there, especially the English? I hear that bitch queen of theirs is out for the king's blood."

Pirates and privateers ...

Schuldich reprimanded himself for listening in at the wrong time.

Pirates ...

As much as he'd enjoyed his freedom in the past few months, there were times when he would lie awake at night, thinking about the last four years of his life ... and about a pair of golden eyes that refused to disappear into the shadows of lost memories.

His one weakness ...

"Bah, that's nothing compared to the greatness of Spain."

His one mistake ...

"So when does the capitán set sail?"

His one regret ...

"Tomorrow."

... was Crawford.

He stood abruptly enough to almost knock over the chair he'd been sitting on, and walked the few steps that separated him from the Spaniards he'd been overhearing.

The sitting trio looked up at him with curiosity and more than a little defensiveness. But Schuldich paid this no mind because in his mediocre Spanish, he looked the men straight in the eyes and asked, "Is your captain taking on any more men?"

(***)

_The British colony of the Virginias_

The drums were still beating.

Even now, after all these years, he could still hear the incessant pounding cut through the crisp morning air, and engulf him in a world of sound and fury.

Brad Crawford assessed his surroundings with impartial eyes, and ignored the distant drums that echoed in his head. The morning sun had risen high enough to cast its glorious light upon the dismal, charred remains of a once beautiful plantation house. Life had long left the home of his childhood, but if he closed his eyes, he could still smell the acrid scent of his burning youth, and feel the rising smoke caress his heated skin.

But destruction did hold its own merits ... for with the burning of the plantation had died the helpless weakling he had once been, and like the phoenix of ancient myth, he had walked away from these ashes a strong and ruthless man.

Having had enough of the reminiscing, Crawford turned to walk past the rotting rubble, and toward the crudely built shanties near the edge of the property. He hadn't come here to visit the past. He'd come here for an entirely different reason. 

Decaying wood and dry dirt eventually gave way to lush green grass beneath his boots as he neared his destination, the beating of the phantom drums becoming louder as he did so.

He remembered running through this field once, golden eyes as soft and innocent as a doe's as he would search for the wise man who had dwelled among the slaves his father had bought. A shaman, Crawford recalled, was what the old man had referred to himself as. With his wrinkled face and wizened dark eyes, he'd wondered why his father had even bothered to buy the man, but all that had been easily dismissed when he'd heard the tales spun from that wise man's tongue. In broken English, the shaman had spoken of power and everlasting life, of unending prosperity and unstained health - all found within the magical waters of a hidden spring. For a child who had been born into a world of wealth and ignored by the very same, those tales had become his only reality. Thus, when the old wise man had claimed to possess a map that led to the mystical spring, he'd readily believed it. But then, life had intervened, and what once had been a child's innocent beliefs became a grown man's jaded cynicism ... until now.

_/* 'Why, Captain? Why do you obsess over him so much ...?' */ _

Crawford paused for a moment at the entrance to one of the crumbling huts as the question blended in with the beating of the drums. He didn't know why Schuldich's question haunted him now. The man was dead, and in his opinion, a dead man's words were worthless.

Pursing his lips, Crawford purposefully stepped into the barely standing shanty he vaguely remembered belonging to the old shaman. Almost immediately, he was assaulted by the potent odour of damp earth and rotting wood.

_/* 'Why, Captain? Why do you obsess over him so much ...?' */_

Crawford wrinkled his nose at the pervasive smell and waited briefly for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the crumbling hut. For seven months, he had swallowed his pride, pretending to his crew and to himself that his defeat at that redheaded captain's hands had not affected him. And yet, the humiliation had simmered, quietly, unknowingly, and unsuspectingly, until pure unadulterated hatred had boiled over.

_/* 'Why, Captain? Why do you obsess over him so much ... ?' */_

He would not be denied this. With quick, no-nonsense movements, he traversed the three steps that comprised the length of the hut and kneeled down in the far corner.

And then, he started digging, bare hands plunging into the moist soil, oblivious of the dirt and insects that instantly coated his skin. The promise of power lay within a box buried in here, and Crawford was not willing to give that up.

_/* 'Why, Captain? Why do you obsess over him so much ...?' */_

"Because, Schuldich," Crawford answered the distant voice between tired breaths. "I don't lose ... I never lose ..."

And still, the drums beat on, played by the invisible hands of slaves who had once witnessed the innocence of a raven-haired child fade away.

  
End Chapter 1


	3. Insanity's Edge

_Historical Notes:_

_The St. Bartholomew Massacre_ - A horrifying holocaust that occurred on August 24, 1572 in France. I'll go into more detail of this if/when I have a chance to write Youji's story.

_King Philip II (taken from the notes of 'Upon a Painted Ocean')_ - King of Spain from 1556 to 1598. He was once considered a possible candidate for marriage to Elizabeth I.

_Political Climate of the Seas (taken from the notes of 'Upon a Painted Ocean')_ - For almost a century after Columbus sailed to the Americas, Spain ruled the sea with their infamous Spanish Armada. However, when a princess named Elizabeth took the throne of England in 1558, English ships began encroaching in an area that had primarily belonged to the Spanish. With the defeat of the Armada by the British in 1588, Spain's iron grip of the oceans began to loosen, and other nations, especially England, took advantage. For the next 50 years, Spain lost most of its naval prowess, the English slowly replacing the once mighty nation in the new Americas and elsewhere in the world.

_Pirates, Privateers and Letters of Marque (taken from the notes of 'Upon a Painted Ocean') _- Although Elizabeth I publicly condemned piracy, she privately supported the act. One way of waging the silent war for dominance against other naval powers was to issue 'letters of marque', which gave ships the legal power to raid others. Those who possessed these letters had the blessing of the issuing monarch, and were known as privateers, as Ran is in this story.

(***)

_Into the Silent Sea  
Chapter 2: Insanity's Edge_

(***)

_Port Royal, Jamaica  
1597_

"I may not be certain, but I think that's bad for your health."

Righteous eyes of crystalline blue glared at the smoking stick resting lazily in Youji's fingers, their owner the very picture of a nagging fishwife ... that was, had he been twenty years older and of the opposite sex. Youji glanced bemusedly over at Omi's smaller, and somewhat imposing, figure before leaning forward against the ship's rail once more and returning his gaze to the hustle and bustle of Port Royal's docks, the rolled up tobacco automatically returning to his mouth as if the younger boy had never spoken. He had managed to haggle himself a small box of the said tobacco the day after they had docked over a week ago, and he couldn't have thought of a better way to pass the afternoon than to relax on the Redemption's deck while making use of his recently procured commodity.

The wharf was over spilling with life this time of day, the muted and overzealous yells from the respectable to the less-than-respectable mingling in the sultry Caribbean air to produce a blended cacophony that was more unique and potent than the most exotic spices. Idly, Youji's green eyes began to follow the path of a dockside prostitute as she made her way up the quay, and attempted to proposition herself off to the gruff and burly sailors who hurried by. A few paused to stare and consider, but in the end, none stayed, in all likelihood, pressed by the more urgent demands of strict captains and inescapable ship duties. The woman wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination, despite the sad state of the tight corset that pushed her breasts up to the limits of indecency and the threadbare skirt that was short enough to reveal an attractive pair of slim ankles. Yet, even with those haphazardly upswept auburn curls, pouting lips, and rouged cheeks, Youji could see a dullness in her expression that painted the woman's story on her face.

Disease, the tall blonde concluded easily. Be it the pox or some other malignant ailment acquired from her illustrious trade, the prostitute would be dead by the end of the year, her fate written as clearly as the sun shining in the sky.

But he had seen worse, Youji thought as he closed his eyes briefly and breathed in more of the burning tobacco. Yes, he had seen life a hundred-fold worse than that dying prostitute on the docks of Port Royal. From that cursed St. Bartholomew's Day in Paris until the moment he'd met his equal in an over-optimistic blond boy, he had witnessed enough of humanity's darkness to fill a dozen tomes. But that was something of the past and of another life, something he had left behind and forgotten - or rather, had tried to forget.

"Youji, did you even hear what I said?"

Omi's stabilizing voice reined the wayward direction of his wandering thoughts, and anchored him to the here and now in a way for which he would always be secretly thankful.

"I heard you, Kid," he said in a tone more nonchalant than he felt. Sometimes, like that very moment, he wanted to scream, to stare that so-called omnipotent being who had created this damned world straight in the eyes and curse the fine mess that had been made of everything. But to openly display that fury and to rail against the injustices like a lunatic would only betray the very man he'd become, not to mention that it would scare the wits out of Omi.

"What do you want?" he added lightly and turned to look at the blond youth.

For a fleeting moment, the boy hesitated, whether it was caused by Youji's sudden attention or the blunt question was undetermined. "N-nothing, really," Omi answered and recovered quickly. "You just looked like a brooding poet standing here by yourself, and seeing as there isn't a ship full of the fairer sex to entice, I thought something was wrong."

Youji gave the smaller blonde his infamous lopsided smile.

This was Omi ... ever optimistic, ever cheerful, and ever perceptive. There were times when he'd wondered how he had managed to travel with such an energetic companion, and yet, there were even more times when he'd wondered how he couldn't.

"Nothing's wrong, Kid," Youji replied. He breathed in one more lungful of his tobacco and dropped what was left of the stick overboard. "Just enjoying the afternoon."

The ensuing expression on Omi's face told Youji that the boy was far from convinced, but having been at each other's side for so long, the younger blonde knew when to leave well enough alone. Straightening, Youji stepped over and automatically ruffled the boy's hair, inwardly aware of how much Omi detested it but inexplicably compelled to do it nonetheless. Locks of diluted gold slipped smoothly through his fingers as the midday sun reflected off each fine strand, and it was then, with the soothing combination of silk and heat against his skin that he understood why he'd always found the chance to casually touch the younger man whenever he could.

Yet, the realization did not stay long in his head when he noticed the playful look of distaste on Omi's face. "Must you always do that?"

"Yes," Youji said candidly, the habitual wicked gleam in his eyes as he removed his hand. "Now, don't you have something to do?"

The younger man shrugged. "Not really. I was going to - " Omi stopped, his eyes suddenly widening and his body tensing. "On second thought, I think I do have something that needs to be done."

At the smaller blonde's words, Youji turned to look in the direction Omi was staring, ... and noticed what had sobered the boy up.

Ran.

To say the redheaded captain looked upset would have been a gross understatement, but likewise, to say he looked furious would have been an overstatement. The man had that set to his expression he usually boasted when he was about to discipline his crew, and Youji could feel Omi's desire to leave the vicinity when that happened. If there was one thing the boy hated more than having his hair rifled through, it was being on the receiving end of someone's anger.

"I think the captain wants to talk to you, Youji," Omi said with a calmness that barely veiled his uneasiness. "I'll leave you two alone."

Like it was the most gracious of courtesies, the younger blonde walked away, leaving his taller companion to stared amusedly in his wake. Omi was perhaps one of the strongest people Youji had ever known - a boy with a will of steel that rivaled men twice his age, and a wit as sharp as a rapier's edge - but at times, he acted endearingly like the awkward youth he truly was.

"Youji, a word."

The commanding voice cut the air crisply and cleanly, and distractedly, the tall blonde wondered how the captain always managed to sound so formidable even when the situation didn't call for it. Slipping into his comfortable carefree persona, Youji turned to the approaching redhead.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my lord Captain?" the blonde drawled as he leaned his back against the ship's rail, arms crossed and head high as if he were in charge of the ship instead of the other man.

"I want to discuss your actions yesterday," Ran said seriously as he stopped before his crewman.

An inquiring blond eyebrow rose. "I helped retrieve your precious document. You can't find fault with that."

"It's not so much the results as it is your methods," the redhead stated plainly.

A hint of pride and defensiveness began to bubble up from within the blonde. Green eyes glittered and previously relaxed muscles stiffened. "From my point of view, I've done nothing wrong and as long as I get the job done with no one getting injured, I don't see why you should take exception to it."

"But I do take exception, Youji," Ran threw back, his voice regulated, but the conviction still unabashedly clear. "I take exception to you jeopardizing the mission, and I take exception to you endangering my crew."

The blonde couldn't stop the small smile from tugging at his lips. The whole purpose of this talk was abundantly apparent now. "You're a little too protective of your first mate, aren't you, my lord Captain?"

An indecipherable flicker graced those implacable violet eyes and Youji felt a spurt of triumph at seeing through the other man's perfect façade.

Who had said that the Redemption's captain was inhuman?

The blonde's lazy smile widened at his accurate assessment and at the other man's moment of discomfort, but that quickly disappeared when Ran regained his composure and stared steadily into his eyes.

"Not any more so than you are of Omi."

Youji's whole demeanor immediately became more solemn. "I am not - "

"I graciously let you and your young friend stay on board my ship all those months ago," Ran cut in, almost ruthlessly, "and if the two of you wish to remain on board, I would suggest you take my position a little more seriously and heed my orders when I give them."

At the redhead's inflectionless words, Youji bristled, his natural arrogance affronted. "You have earned my grudging respect thus far, Captain. Don't ruin that now by threatening Omi," the blonde ground out through clenched teeth.

"Then don't threaten Ken's life."

The echo of the last phrase lingered uneasily between the two men, the air suddenly thick with unrelenting stubbornness and unparalleled pride. At the rate this was going, Youji realized that the both of them could have easily stood there until Armageddon without a victor, and thus, tried to regain his previous good humour.

"It seems that we are at an impasse, my lord Captain," he said, using his teasing moniker for the redhead to diffuse the tension. "I will concede then and play the part of the obedient crewman."

And yet, even as he said it, Youji knew that his attitude and tone would negate his very words. His natural character and obedience were two concepts that simply did not go well with one another. But, it was all Ran would get and it was what Ran reluctantly accepted.

Seeing that he would get no more from the blonde, the young captain let out a tired breath and began to turn away. "Make sure that it doesn't happen again, Youji," the redhead said as they separated.

Youji nodded his acquiescence as he watched the other man walk toward the quarterdeck. "Aye, Sir," he whispered quietly and with a dash of mockery. And then, green eyes twinkled knowingly as they watched Ran meet up with a familiar brunette.

"It would appear, my lord Captain, that we both have something to protect, don't we?"

(***)

_The British Colony of the Virginias ..._

The lines had been faded by age, but after countless hours of careful scrutiny, Crawford had finally managed to decipher the scribbling on what felt like a piece of cured animal skin.

South, the dark-haired captain concluded. He had to head south to find the answer to all his problems.

He leaned back and let out an exhausted sigh, his eyes closing and his hand coming up to give them a good rub. The hard, resisting wood of his desk chair dug into his spine and at the constant pressure, he finally became aware of the other stiff joints and strained muscles in his body.

The brief trip to his childhood home was fast becoming a distant memory now, as were all his other recollections of that time. Trust given and indifference returned, innocence offered and scorn rewarded, that had been his pathetic existence and he was more than glad to leave it in those decrepit ashes to be lost into the obscurity of time. He had gotten what he'd gone for, and that was all that mattered.

A map. _The_ map. And with it, his ultimate goal - vengeance.

For the past two days, he'd sequestered himself away in his cabin with his prize, the Valiant having been left in the hands of his crew and their skills. And now, as the blessed silence of his room slowly gave way to the muffled shouts and muted pounding of a docked ship in repair, he wondered if it had been wise to leave his men unsupervised. Had Schuldich still been alive, he would have easily delegated everything to the redhead to handle, for in the three years that the man had been on the ship, he had acted with as much arrogance as befitted a captain. And as much as the dead crewman's upstart attitude had irked him, Crawford could not deny that Schuldich had been the most competent of all his men. 

At the thought of the conceited redhead, something inside the dark-haired captain constricted, an occurrence that the man in question was at a loss to explain until a sedate pounding began to sound in the back of his head. Crawford breathed out another sigh, this one of relief.

He was hungry.

'Then again, who wouldn't be after two days of starvation?' he told himself.

Satisfied with his assumption, he sat up in his chair and carefully folded the map in front of him. He wasn't finished with the thing yet since he still had a course to plot but that could wait until after he'd eaten.

"Nagi." He didn't yell the boy's name exactly but his voice came out loudly enough to penetrate the walls of his immaculate cabin. If his guess was correct, the meek brunette who'd somehow attached himself to the crew would be wandering close at hand, very much like a certain untamable redhead had once been wont to do.

"Sir?"

As he'd expected, a small face with malleable blue eyes peeked through the doorway, his appearance accompanied with the telltale squeak of a hinge that would need some oiling soon. The boy had mysteriously appeared at his side almost seven months ago on that fateful trip to Myklos Island. Where he'd come from, and who he was exactly, Crawford didn't know and hadn't felt compelled to ask. In fact, for a time, he hadn't even realized that the kid had come aboard his ship - that period being one where he'd been too distracted to even care - but when he finally did notice the undersized boy discreetly dogging his footsteps, he'd passively accepted it. Schuldich was gone, which meant that he'd lost a crewman, and according to his rationale, keeping the boy, Nagi, around saved him the trouble of actively seeking out a new sailor.

"Bring me some food," he sent the order to the boy without much thought.

"Yes, Sir."

Yes, Sir. And that was it.

A simple 'yes, sir' followed by a quiet click of the closing door.

No objections, no protestations, and no defiance. Complete compliance.

_/**_

_"Why, Crawford? Go do it yourself. I've got better things to do."_

_"Need I remind you, Schuldich, that I am the captain of this ship - a title, might I add, that you've neglected to call me - and if I order you to do something, you are to do it without question."_

_"Or what? You'll throw me overboard like you've been threatening to do for the past four months I've been on this ship?"_

_**/_

A dull pain in his right hand drew Crawford's attention back to the present. He look down at the limb on his desk - knuckles white, and fingers tightly fisted - as it gripped his recently folded map into a savagely crumpled ball. His tired eyes narrowed in anger. Even in death, that redhead still managed to irk him. Slowly, and with more concentration than he would admit, he released his hold on the abused map, each finger seeming like it had to be consciously told by his brain to relax.

His lips thinned.

Perhaps he should have thrown Schuldich overboard when he'd had the chance.

(***)

_Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean ..._

Drip, drip.

Darkness. Dampness. Deprivation.

Drip, drip.

Schuldich squinted at the wooden boards before him and swung his fist out to give it a good hard punch.

The brig. That lily-livered ass of a captain had actually had the audacity to throw him in the goddamned bloody brig.

Drip, drip.

Numbing coldness and pitch-blackness had become his constant companions in the past two days, which he would have suffered grudgingly had it not been for the cramped dimensions of his prison. It was small and it was confining, wide enough for him to take only one step in each direction, and high enough for him to stand only with his knees bent and back slouched. As it was, he could barely sit comfortably with his legs outstretched on the hard floorboards.

Drip, drip.

'And that damned leak!' he mentally screamed as he punched the wall again. It would serve them right if he began to tear at the boards and make that leak into a gaping hole large enough to sink this sorry excuse of a ship.

Drip, drip.

The droplets of water were mocking him. It was mocking as undoubtedly as the crew above deck was mocking him. A foreigner, a man who was so different from everyone else on board with his bright red-orange hair and mischievous green eyes, had dared to question that boastful pig of a captain. They probably wondered if he was daft to do such a thing, which, at times, Schuldich wondered himself.

Why he had approached and convinced the Spanish captain to let him join the crew was beyond him. One minute, he was enjoying the relaxing summer day in the Plaza del Mercado, and the next, he was sailing out of Valencia's port on board the outdated frigate named the Isabella. All he knew was that he was on a ship again, cutting through a pristine world of crystal and light, and playing in a field that had been almost like a home to him for three years.

Schuldich smirked at his sentiments.

Perhaps he was going insane after all.

Drip, drip.

Again, his fist connected with the rough wood, splinters no doubt flying in all directions if he could see them and into his hand if he could feel it. The cold of the brig had long robbed him of sensation in his outer extremities and the small pool of water gathering beside him would not help matters at all.

He hated this. He hated being cold. He hated being left in the darkness. He hated being on board a ship with such an intolerable captain.

_/**_

_"Schuldich!"_

_"I know, Crawford. I'll do it when I finish this. It's not as if you can't wait."_

_A condemning pause._

_"Fine, **Cap-tain**. I'll save you the trouble and throw myself overboard if I don't do it..."_

_**/_

Drip, drip.

'This was all that dimwitted Spanish captain's fault,' Schuldich fumed. He had been perfectly within his rights to refuse to swab the decks ... hadn't he? Such chores were beneath him ... at least on the Valiant.

Drip, drip.

He punched repetitively at the wall again, uncaring of the damage he brought to his hand. And yet, no matter how much he cursed his situation, a small part of him knew the truth, as loathed as he was to recognize it. He hated it here because it wasn't the Valiant. He hated it here because it was too constricting and too rigid. He hated it here because it wasn't captained by a ruthless, dark-haired killer with golden eyes.

Crawford would have never thrown him in the brig for such a small act of insubordination ... because when all was said and done, Crawford would have never taken away his freedom.

(***)

_San Juan, Puerto Rico_

The room was a den of cutthroats masquerading as a respectable establishment, and Ran was well aware of this fact the moment he'd stepped into the place. Despite the rushed trip from Port Royal and a better part of the day spent trying to find the place, the redhead's sense of observation hadn't dulled.

The _Señora Roja_ was a moderately clean building where the walls abounded with a generous amount of beeswax candles and the furnishings sat in a sturdier state than those typically found at a dockside tavern. Even the thick smell of processed molasses was decidedly less than expected from a place well known for its rum. But Ran's keen sense penetrated through the deceiving veneer, his thorough violet eyes easily seeing the covert glances from the wealthier looking clientele and the muscles tensed for action at the slightest provocation beneath all the cloth finery. The people who frequented the establishment were those who fancied themselves gentlemen and sought to prove thus by acting the part through ill-gotten gains. Yet, for Ran, who had been born into a world of wealth and privilege, they appeared nothing more than imposters, and bad ones at that.

Quickly giving the room one last survey, he gestured for his men to follow him to a table in the far corner, his hand falling casually onto the pommel of his sword as he made his way through the questionable patrons. He had only brought three men with him today - Ken, Youji, and Mr. Mumbles - for the sake of inconspicuousness, but for the exchange that was to take place, he didn't see any need for more men.

"Who exactly are we meeting, Captain?" Ken asked as he took a seat beside the redhead.

Ran glanced over to his right at his first mate, an action he instantly regretted since he usually had such a difficult time looking away from the younger man when he least desired it. His gaze lingered on the play of candlelit shadows that danced across Ken's fine featured face, the montage of dark and light giving the brunette a deep, mysterious air that now contradicted the fiery spirit Ran had come to know.

"A friend," the young captain answered a little more tersely than he'd intended and finally dragged his attention from the man. In doing so, he noticed the knowing glimmer in a pair of green eyes from across the table and Ran fought an impulse to put his fist straight into Youji's handsome face. Their conversation from yesterday still sat fresh in his mind, and when he recalled how quickly the blonde had read his actions, he couldn't stop the wave of self-anger that washed through him.

When had he become so transparent? He, the renowned captain of the Redemption, who'd prided himself on his reputation of impenetrability, had been caught.

"And what does your friend look like, my lord Captain?" Youji's question was as innocent as it sounded, but oddly enough, Ran was certain there was an undertone of humour in those words.

The redheaded captain forced himself to keep his eyes on the entrance instead of the occupants of the table. "Someone prettier than you, Youji."

"A woman?"

The quick remark came from Ken, his surprise apparent to everyone at the table.

"So it's a woman that Ken and I risked our lives to please?" Youji taunted. "I do hope ... "

Ran blocked out the blonde's voice as he went on to exalt the fairer sex, a task made much easier when a dark hooded and cloaked figure walked through the door. Reflexively, the redhead rose from his chair as the mysterious arrival approached. Not long thereafter, his companions noticed the new patron and followed Ran's example with a concerted scraping of chairs.

"Ran," a breathy voice greeted the captain as gloved hands raised up to lower the hood. Glorious red hair, well defined lips and porcelain skin shone enticingly in the flickering candlelight the moment the enshrouding hood was rid of, a vision that elicited an appreciative whistle from Youji.

"Manx," Ran returned and bowed over her offered hand to place a light kiss on her fingers.

Lady Mansfield, who the young captain had taken to calling Manx over the years, nodded her acknowledgement of the courtesy and quickly glanced around the table at the other men.

"My men," Ran introduced. "Gentlemen, this is Manx."

The newest arrival made the requisite nod in each of the men's directions before turning back to Ran. "You have it?" she inquired as she took the seat that Youji gallantly gave up, and watched the redheaded captain expectantly as he sat down with the rest of his crew.

"Yes," he replied quietly, reached into the hidden pocket of his cloak, and extracted the coveted map on the table. "Although there was quite a bit of trouble acquiring it. Now, I know I owe your husband my life, Manx, and would do anything you asked, but I would honestly appreciate being told what I'm risking my crew's life for."

Unsettling amethyst eyes trained unwaveringly on the woman, patiently awaiting an answer. Manx remained silent for several heartbeats, her reluctance to speak masked expertly with a steady, challenging gaze of her own.

Finally, the lady gave in. "Have you ever heard of the Fountain of Youth?"

"Yes, but that's only a myth."

"Well, I believe otherwise," Manx returned. "Before my husband died, he was on a mission for the Queen to find it."

The last statement confused Ran. "Why would Bess be interested in the Fountain?"

"Because Spain is," the woman answered easily. "You, of all people, should be aware of the tensions between the British and the Spanish, Ran. Although it has never been officially declared, England has been silently at war with Spain since Elizabeth has taken the throne. Why do you think her Majesty gladly gave you a letter of marque?"

"So Bess wants to find this Fountain before Philip does?"

"Yes."

Ran watched Manx closely, not completely satisfied with her explanation. "There's something more to this, isn't there?"

Again, the redheaded woman said nothing.

But the young captain refused to relent. He had drawn his own conclusions, and was almost certain he was right. "You said your husband was searching for this fountain before he was killed. Did his death have something to do with this map?"

At his deduction, Manx looked away, her very aversion of his gaze affirmation enough.

"Manx, I think it's time you told me how John died. The man saved my life, and I've never had the chance to repay him. If I can - "

"Ran," the woman cut him off, her face still turned away. "You said you would do anything for me, am I correct?"

Her voice held a steel force in it that he had long come to recognize as her 'business' voice. Her husband, John Mansfield, had been an honourable and admirable man; yet, unknown to many, his true strength had always laid in his wife. And when she spoke so seriously, Ran had a tendency to listen, and listen carefully. Leaning forward on the table, he nodded and waited for her to continue. But nothing was immediately forthcoming.

Then, Ran realized that Manx hadn't looked away to avoid him; she had turned away to watch a group of five men walk into and around the room. The new arrivals appeared respectable enough with their fine doublets and expensive hose, yet one look into those malicious eyes and at those prominently displayed weapons, and one was easily convinced they weren't out for a night of revelry.

Instinctively, Ran tensed for trouble and hoped his men did as well. He didn't know what exactly triggered the whole event but somewhere between the men finally making eye contact with Manx and the redheaded woman yelling his name, he reacted.

"Youji, move!" Ran ordered as he flipped the table over just in time for two gunshots to ring out. Immediately, chaos became a close companion to the acrid smell of gunpowder in the air. An army of scraping chairs and falling tables were quickly followed by the cascading sound of answering gunshots, the other occupants of the establishment reacting to the sudden violence.

Ran quickly took out his pistol and looked around for his companions. Youji and Mr. Mumbles were crouched behind another overturned table to his left, and Ken had taken shelter behind a stack of water barrels to his right, all with their weapons at the ready and awaiting their captain's orders. Manx had ended up hiding with him behind their own table, her own concealed pistol out and primed.

"Ran, those men are here for me. I was investigating John's death a little too closely and brought this down on myself," she explained breathlessly. "You said you'd do anything for me? Then find John's murderer. Find the Fountain and you'll probably find the bastard who killed my husband."

The young captain looked disbelievingly at Manx. Had he heard correctly? Searching for a myth was perhaps the height of insanity, and she wanted him to find it? Still, John's murderer was walking around unpunished ...

"Ran, please." Manx's pleading eyes beseeched him into speechlessness. Just then, an errant bullet skimmed the top of their table and sent a shower of splinters in their direction. 

"Ran!" 

He heard Ken's shout and watched the brunette lean out and loose his only shot.

Damn it! That was Ken's only ammunition. Without his pistol, all his first mate had left was his sword. Whatever his decision was, he would have to make it quickly.

"Please, Ran."

Again, Manx's entreating voice echoed beside him. Taking in one last deep breath, he nodded.

The woman's strained expression relaxed enough to smile slightly with relief. "Thank you," she whispered. "The map ... "

Ran inclined his head again. When the table had been flipped, the map had fallen down amidst the chaos. He looked over at Youji and Mr. Mumbles, and then at Ken, signaling for them to make for the exit on his command. He knew he was taking a risk, but didn't see any other way of getting out with both Manx and the map. The other patrons were providing the perfect distraction, and there was no harm in taking advantage of it.

"Manx, we're going to run for the exit. Get ready," he informed the woman. "I'll grab the map on the way out. It's just on the other side of the table."

Manx raised her pistol, letting him know of her readiness to comply.

He could hear the staccato of his heart beat steadily in his ears, and could feel the tightness in his stomach that usually precluded a fight, but the whole experience had become something he'd learned to relish. There was never a moment when he'd feel more alive than the moment before he taunted Death. Re-affirming his grip on his pistol, he mentally counted to three and then nodded his signal.

Ceding control to his body, his rational mind observed impartially as he and his crew left the safety of their hiding spots, weapons ready, and dove headlong into the lethal fray.

(***)

That had been pure insanity, Ken thought as he walked steadily behind Ran down San Juan's pier, lungs grateful to be breathing the refreshing night air, tainted as it was by the stench of dockside waste. Even now, as he, Youji, Mr. Mumbles, and the captain returned to the Redemption, he had a difficult time believing they'd made it out of that war zone alive.

The evening had begun with the promise of a simple, sedate rendezvous, and Ken had not expected anything more. However, that had all changed when _she_ had shown up, a beautiful woman with enticing red lips, flawless ivory skin, and a mysterious familiarity with Ran. From the moment those two had sat down, he had felt an uncomfortable weight sit heavily in his chest and had had to suppress the need to physically separate the two. In fact, he'd been so caught up in their cozy rapport that he'd failed to notice the questionable arrivals at the entrance until Ran had flipped over the table.

That was when he'd finally realized what a complete fool he'd been for letting his guard down. It had taken a rowdy brawl to finally put him back in the right state of mind but from that moment onward, he'd been as alert as he'd always been. They had somehow managed to fight their way out of that room, all of them dodging flying fists and blocking swinging swords. Ran had even retrieved that precious map they'd had so much trouble acquiring, an act that had momentarily stopped Ken's heart when he'd lost sight of the redhead for that second, but they'd surprisingly made it out relatively unscathed. Not long thereafter, they had separated from Manx's company - the woman claiming that she had to get back to her own ship - and oddly, Ken felt relieved to see her go. 

Now, as they walked up the moonlit gangplank and onto the ship, Ken wondered exactly who that woman had been and what she was to Ran.

"You've been especially quiet tonight."

Ken looked over at Youji and stepped onto the main deck to join the man. "Have I?" he returned innocently.

Youji smiled slyly. "Well, more so than usual. I don't suppose it has anything to do with that pretty redhead our captain met tonight?"

Innocent expression undisturbed, the brunette gave a small shrug.

Youji actually had the audacity to chuckle. "Ken," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes. "I have this theory about redheads. You see, their personalities are just too similar for any attraction to even exist. They're too stubborn and headstrong to get on well together, if you ask me. And I don't think they want to pass on that unfortunate trait of red hair to their offspring."

At the blonde's outrageous theory, Ken had to smile. Farfetched as it was, the other man's words actually made him feel a little better.

"Youji, I don't think ... "

"Ken, can I see you in my cabin, please?" Ran's commanding voice pre-empted Ken's comments.

The first mate looked over at the figure of the redhead making his way to the captain's cabin without even turning to see if the brunette complied.

Ken sighed inwardly, and excused himself from Youji. Duty called.

He caught up with the young captain at his cabin door, and waited for the other man to enter first before he followed. Closing the door firmly behind him, he turned to await orders from the redhead.

Yet, Ran didn't walk to his desk as he usually did when he had orders to dole out. Instead, he stopped just several steps into the room and turned to stare tiredly at the first mate.

"Ken, I - " Ran stopped.

It was then that Ken knew something wasn't right. The man never hesitated when he spoke.

"Captain, what's wrong?"

The words had no sooner left his mouth than Ran's legs gave out. Instantly, the brunette was at his side to catch the falling body before it hit the hard boards.

"Ran, you stupid bloody idiot!" he exclaimed with a mixture of anger and fear as he registered the warm stickiness that coated his fingers. "You've been shot!"

End Chapter 2  
  



	4. Rules of Engagement

A/N: There's a good reason why this took so long to update, but I won't bore you with the reasons. Just please accept my apologies for the delay. ^_^ Also, thank you so much to those who've emailed me about this story during the interim. I really appreciated it. 

(***)

Into the Silent Sea  
Chapter 3: Rules of Engagement 

(***)

Silence was often an underappreciated entity, just as calmness was often an underrated trait. But despite his utmost respect for them, Ken sometimes thought that the world could have easily done without them - like now. In fact, at that very moment, he hated them ... hated what they were doing to him, and especially hated what they were doing to Ran.

"Hold him still."

Omi's steely command came out softly, yet the blatant authority that accompanied the smaller boy's words were enough to make the brunette tighten his restraining hold on the warm body beneath his arms.

A quarter of an hour had passed since they'd managed to force Ran down on his desk - minutes that had seemed to stretch on into eternity for Ken - and they were no closer to removing that damned bullet now than when the stubborn captain had collapsed against his first mate.

The events following their return to the ship were still clouded in a haze of anger, fear, and desperation for Ken - anger at the obstinate redhead for hiding his wound, fear at seeing such a strong man fall so lifelessly to the ground, and desperation at the thought of losing the one person who'd filled a void in him he never knew he had. He remembered calling out for help, duly ignoring the older man's weak protest at letting his crew know of his condition, and loudly yelling through the room's walls for someone to come.

Youji had been the first to arrive, opening the door with a look of annoyance that had quickly turned to shock. Soon thereafter, Mr. Mumbles and Omi had appeared, followed by a few other straggling crew members. And it had been then, with frantic brown eyes searching the surprised faces gathered around him that Ken had realized that the only crewman who could have helped - a one-time barber who'd practiced surgery on the side - had left the ship over three months ago.

For a whole second, Ken teetered on the line between rationality, and complete panic.

And then, "Clear off the desk and help me get him on it."

Just like that, with a clearheaded, unemotional efficiency that the brunette was incapable of at the moment, Omi had taken charge. The young blonde had quickly emptied the room, and had organized the situation with a strictness that would have put a dictator to shame.

Ken hadn't complained. His rational mind had slipped into a state of such incompetence that he had barely been able to help Youji lift Ran onto the desk after the taller man had carelessly cleared off the surface. As he had settled the captain down with as little jostling as possible, the brunette had absently noted Omi sending Mr. Mumbles off with several whispered instructions.

And through it all, the redhead had remained silent, his face maintaining a demeanor of calmness that almost drove Ken to the point of distraction. He couldn't even begin to fathom how the prideful redhead had managed to hide his injury for so long, or how much pain the man was feeling at their delayed ministrations, but instinctively, he knew that Ran was masking everything behind that unflappable veneer of his and was refusing to tarnish his reputation of invulnerability.

Yet, secretly, he wished the wounded man would just simply relent and give up his act. From experience, he understood that the agony would lessen considerably if there was an outlet for the suppressed tension that was building up inside.

Omi had wasted no time in taking a pair of forceps, along with a small bucket of steaming water, from Mr. Mumbles when the dark-skinned man returned. He had then put them to good use without any hesitation. When Youji and Ken had seen what the young blonde intended to do, they had quickly taken up position by the prone redhead; Youji had moved to still the young captain's legs, leaving the brunette to immobilize the upper torso.

"Where?" Omi had asked Ran when he was ready, hands still moist from a quick wash and the small metal instrument at the ready.

"Side," the redhead had managed to whisper hoarsely, violet eyes slightly glazed, but still fully aware and cognizant. "Above the hip ..."

Ken had been surprised the man could string a coherent phrase together, but his personal astonishment soon disappeared when Omi had ripped the bloodied cloth of Ran's shirt apart to assess the wound. Smooth, pale skin peeked out from hapless strokes of varying crimson shades, the stark duet of red and white mutually complimenting a small circle of near-black just above the subtle protrusion of the wounded man's left hipbone.

It had seemed wrong to Ken that there should be such a defacement of sheer flawlessness, and he had found himself fighting the urge to reach out and rub away the mark like it was some tenacious speck of dirt. Instead, he'd settled for reaching an arm over Ran's chest, and firmly gripping the injured captain's shoulder in preparation of things to come. Unconsciously, his other hand had sought out that of the redhead's, their fingers automatically entwining without any thought or fanfare. Likewise, Youji had followed suit by leaning down onto the prone man's legs.

"Just a little more ..." came Omi's quiet voice.

Ken oriented himself back to the present, and reaffirmed his hold on the taut body beneath him. He could feel his grip begin to slip on the sweat-soaked skin, but with a muted snort of determination, he willed his arm to maintain its current position. Ran's muscles literally vibrated with strain beneath his fingers, and Ken could easily see the man's jaw alternatively tightening and relaxing from Omi's exploration.

The brunette deigned to glance over at the smaller blonde, and at the sight of the boy's bloodied handiwork, he could have sworn that the metallic scent that filled the cabin's air thickened.

Ken suppressed the need to gag.

"Do you even know what you're doing, Omi?" He looked questioningly at the furrowed brow of the younger blonde.

Omi didn't bother to acknowledge him - Ken wasn't even sure the boy had heard him - and simply continued to search for the embedded bullet.

"Just trust him," Youji said in a subdued voice from the other end of the desk. "He's done this once before."

Ken shot the taller blonde a wide-eyed look. "Once?" he squeaked. "How do we know if he's doing this right?"

Hard, green eyes locked with Ken's astonished brown ones at that very moment, the absolute seriousness and confidence shining in their depths a complete revelation to behold. If Ken didn't know any better, he would have thought that this man was a stranger, a complete departure from the carefree, nonchalant Youji he'd come to know.

Then, the blonde spoke, his tone succinct and direct. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

At this, Ken looked away, the rhetorical question rapidly quieting any doubts he had had. He was not one to put his faith in anything freely, but just this once, he would ... especially if it meant that Ran would be alive and healthy in the end.

"Hold him still!"

Omi's request coincided with the redhead's sudden jerk, and Ken re-doubled his efforts. Shifting his body, he leaned further onto the wounded man, and tightened his fingers around his captain's. He felt Ran squeeze his hand in return, and slowly, he lowered his gaze to meet the redhead's.

That amethyst glare was bright with pain, but even so, it settled lucidly onto Ken. Soulful brown eyes softened.

'Everything will be fine,' the darker pair said silently, and as if the message had been declared for the entire room to hear, some of the tension eased from the injured man's frame.

Ken allowed a small, reassuring smile to play on his lips, and instantly, Ran seemed transfixed.

It had been an action and consequent reaction that the two of them had unconsciously perfected in their time together. After everything they had been through, after facing countless raids and deadly boarding parties, after coming a hair's breadth from losing their lives, this had become their own private refuge from the harsh claws of reality. For a man such as Ken, who held little value in the flowery escapism of high romance, this was as close as he would come to keeping the world at bay. He wasn't a firm believer in the often idealized concept of love, but he did believe in this; he believed in the reassuring heat that surged with vitality beneath his clasped fingers, he believed in the twinkling violet eyes that showered a tickling warmth over his skin, and he believed in this single, surreal moment when their breaths came in undeniable and synchronized harmony.

But just as swiftly as that connection had been made, it disappeared.

Without warning, the redhead's eyes squeezed shut, and his back arched. Helpless to alleviate the pain, the first mate watched with weary eyes and allowed the death grip on his hand to tighten.

"Got it!"

Omi's victorious shout was accompanied by the dull clang of the offending bullet falling into the small dish sitting on the floor, and in Ken's opinion, the sound couldn't have come soon enough.

"About time," the brunette wheezed out as tension began to leave his body. He couldn't draw his attention away from Ran, whose chest was heaving as if he'd just ran the entire length of San Juan, but he knew his invading sense of responsibility was intent on reasserting itself within seconds.

Thus, he settled for a compromise: allowing his hand to remain in the young captain's, he straightened and looked over at Omi.

"We need to close the wound. Do you have ...?"

The smaller blonde was well ahead of him. "I know. I had Mr. Mumbles bring a needle and ..."

"No."

Ran's protest was soaked with weakness and exhaustion, but its commanding tone deterred any thought of disobedience. "Brand," he continued. "Cleaner. Faster."

"You're jesting, aren't you?" Youji's disbelieving voice came from the other end of the desk. "Damn, I always knew you were bloody crazy."

And for once, the brunette couldn't have agreed with the self-confident man more. "Ran, you're not thinking clearly. It may take a while to heal, but just let Omi patch you up," Ken looked down and said quietly in a voice that only the two of them could hear.

Yet his softly spoken words were lost on the injured man who had already turned away from his first mate and was glaring at the small blonde at his side.

Briefly, the stuffy air of the cabin crackled with pent-up energy and the barely-curbed objections of all the men residing within, but Ran's stubbornness eventually won out, causing Omi to nod silently and march purposefully to the door. Ken watched the boy with disbelief and although a part of him wanted to run and stop the young blonde, the rest of him had succumbed to a strange, inexplicable apathetic calm.

"Stupid, idiotic captain," he whispered hoarsely as he allowed himself one small lapse and lowered his own head onto the polished surface beside Ran's. Closing his eyes, he let a shuddering breath leave his lungs, and resisted the urge to just jump up onto the desk and curl up next to the warm body already on it. At this distance, he could smell the redhead's scent - a clean, enticing musk that seemed to fight valiantly through the enshrouding odors of blood and sweat - and he felt himself being lulled into a serene sense of security, false as it may be.

"Get him ready."

Ken could have sworn that he'd only closed his eyes for one second, but Omi's sure voice brought him back to reality and told him otherwise.

Youji seemed to have been aware of his temporal lapse, and took the initiative. Without preamble, the older man was given what looked like a small wooden peg from the blond boy, and walked solemnly to stand beside the prone redhead. Omi followed, carefully handling a metal poker in his hand that still glowed orange from the recent heating.

"Some of the men just re-stocked the rum," the small blonde said as he neared. "We could get some if you want ..."

The young captain declined and shook his head on the table like a lifeless doll.

Ken heard Youji sigh at the response, but still, unerringly, he placed the wooden peg horizontally across the redhead's mouth. "Bite down hard, and don't swallow your tongue. You'd put all of Omi's efforts to waste."

The captain complied. And if he was irritated at being commanded to do such a simple thing, he didn't show it.

"Ready?" the smaller blonde asked, the apprehensive set of his shoulders easily betraying the steadiness of his voice and actions.

Ran nodded.

The span of time that followed was one that Ken would later hope never to re-live.

His most distinct impression of the ensuing event was the intense pressure exerted on his hand by Ran. The redheaded captain squeezed his appendage so tightly that the possibility of never being able to use that limb again passed through the first mate's mind.

And then, there was the smell...

The burning, acrid smell of sizzling human flesh.

Ken shut his eyes, the action a futile attempt to block out the crackling sound of scarring skin, the strained choke of Ran's intake of breath, and the painful arch of the young captain's body. Oddly enough, he felt suspicious moisture begin to form beneath his eyelashes. He swallowed repeatedly, and reminded himself that this macabre nightmare would end soon.

And it did.

With the hollow clatter of the recently bitten peg falling to the floor and Omi's muted 'done', the whole thing ended.

Letting out a breath that he'd held for the duration of the brand, Ken opened his eyes, and absently, he noticed that the grip on his hand had grown lax. He threw a worried glance down at the injured man and found that the redhead had finally fallen into blessed unconsciousness.

"Wrap the wound up and get him into bed," the brunette managed to croak out as he removed his numb fingers from Ran's grasp.

Omi nodded, and gestured for Youji to help.

Seeing that the young boy had managed to keep a level head through the whole ordeal, Ken relaxed somewhat and turned from the desk to do what he'd been wanting to do since Omi had brought the metal poker into the cabin.

With a shudder, Ken bent over and retched.

(***)

He wasn't much for moping.

He could taunt with the best of them, and he could be an insolent ass when the mood suited him.

But he didn't mope!

Schuldich let out a sigh that bordered on overdramatic and leaned gracelessly against the aged wood of the ship's rail, head hung at a dejected angle.

He should've been happy that he'd been released from that godforsaken brig - grateful and ecstatic even - but for some odd reason, those feelings seemed to have eluded him. All circumstances considered, there was no explanation for this languid, grey pall that had descended over him. Here he stood on the crystalline waters of the ocean, in the loving sunshine of a sickeningly beautiful day, and he couldn't muster up the emotions that should've been evoked by such a scene. In fact, this whole excursion lacked the thrill he had initially thought it would have had.

It lacked the cutthroat intensity he was used to. It lacked the lethal excitement he'd come to expect. It lacked the deceptive ruthlessness he found familiar. It lacked...

"Hey, you! The rigging needs to be untangled. Get up there now!"

Schuldich knew that the guttural Spanish words from the ship's grizzled captain were directed at him, but in his own defiant fashion, he didn't turn to acknowledge the order. Instead, he continued to stare out into the endless blue of sky and sea.

It lacked ... Crawford.

"You! Did you hear what I said?!"

The captain's incessant badgering had long become white noise to Schuldich, his non-existent motivation more a product of boredom than desire. The dankness of his recent stay in the brig still dwelled in the marrow of his bones, and yet, the reminder of the past punishment was duly ignored. He understood that he could push the Spaniard only so far, but even so, he felt like testing the man's limits again for his own amusement. Besides, if there was one thing he did well, it was laughing in the face of authority.

"Get to work! Or else it's back to the brig with you!"

Again, the command was hurled his way, but this time, he smirked, and turned to look at the dark-haired man on the small quarterdeck with an arrogance that would have belittled any mortal. And the old captain was just a man after all, for he took an involuntary step back when he caught the full glare of the redhead's flashing eyes.

One bright eyebrow rose, partially questioning in manner, but completely superior in attitude. "You mean you want me to get to work and ignore the ship that's fast approaching us?" Schuldich said in his sub-par Spanish, tone mockingly sweet.

At this, the tan-skinned captain managed to pull his gaze away from the redhead and onto the bright horizon off his stern. The few other crewmen who'd been near enough to catch his words followed suit and like the sudden onslaught of a squall, the entire atmosphere of the ship went from calm to frantic.

"English sons of whores," Schuldich heard some of the men predict.

"Bastard pirates," some others cursed as they scurried about to ready the small frigate for a mid-sea engagement.

A soft chuckle escaped Schuldich's lips at the chaotic scramble of the mindless drones around him. He leaned back against the rigid girder of the rail, and watched the pre-battle tension build. It was an entertaining sight to say the least, a little less disciplined and much more unskilled than what he'd observed on the Valiant, but the ship he'd spotted was far enough away that he could soak in every inept and clumsy move of the treasure-hunting Spaniards.

From a personal perspective, he wasn't as worried as his fellow crewmates about the upcoming event. Firstly, he didn't have anything to lose in the encounter. He wasn't as intent on retrieving this so-called treasure as the others, and far be it for him to sacrifice his life for a little gold. He'd long ago seen what the promise of riches could do to a person - had experienced it firsthand for that matter - and he had promised himself that he would never give in to such a weakness again. And secondly, he'd sailed with Crawford long enough to understand the laws of the sea. Be they British or brigands, one fact remained constant. The supposed rules of engagement were nothing but fancy ideals written by minds that had romanticized and idolized a sailor's life: honourably follow the code and one risked death at the hands of a man who'd just as easily eschew them without conscience. But discard the code ...

Schuldich smiled mentally at all he'd learned from his time on the Valiant.

Discard the code, and guarantee oneself a higher chance of survival.

And survival was the one lesson he'd learned well in this life.

"Pirates!" Schuldich heard one of the running crewmen shout just then. "Foul stench pirates!"

The redhead turned to assess the decidedly non-British colours of the vessel that had finally come into full view.

Pirates, indeed.

The ship, although equipped with a suitable array of canons, belonged to nothing but a rabble-rousing group of mediocre cutthroats. Had he still been on the Valiant, Crawford would've sunk the pathetic thing without blinking an eye.

'But Crawford isn't here,' a clear, rational voice proclaimed in his head, bringing to light what a complete idiot he'd been for reminiscing about something he'd consciously forgotten. The Valiant and her captain were part of his past now, as dead to him as he was to them. He was a bloody fool for even drawing such a comparison.

Then why did the idea of erasing the very memory sit so heavily in him?

"Weakness. Nothing but a weakness," he muttered to himself as he straightened. Brows furrowed, he strode toward the sailor who'd brought up a bundle of weapons from below, the dismal selection of dull cutlasses and outdated rapiers leaving too much to be desired for his tastes. But select a sturdy weapon he did, intent on proving to himself that he could handle this on his own, without Crawford and without his ship.

After all, he'd done fine before he'd snuck onto the Valiant, and he would do fine now that he'd left it.

"Prepare for ..."

The abrupt blast of a canon cut off the captain's shout, and caused Schuldich to duck.

The shot had been more one of a warning than attack, and not far off the Spanish frigate's bow, he heard the telltale splash of heavy iron striking water. Standing taller, the redhead turned once again to the stern.

For a ship that had appeared inferior to his eyes, the attacking vessel had covered the distance with remarkable speed. It wouldn't be long before they were boarded by the looks of it, and apparently, the entire Spanish crew knew it.

An almost tangible hum filled the air, gliding across Schuldich's sun-warmed skin and seeping into his pores. His surroundings had become nothing more than a bright, surreal haze where nothing seemed solid and where the only sense of self existed in the air that filled the lungs and the hard steel pressed in one's palm. Everything about it - the feeling, the sense, the atmosphere - was just an appetizer, a precursor to the moment when civilized thought gave way to primal bloodlust and when the fear of death gave way to the vigor of life.

The pirates boarded with the ease of men who had done it numerous times before, and the small Spanish ship, a lot of inexperienced treasure seekers who knew nothing of evasive maneuvers or raids, buckled under the assault.

Booming shouts, clashing steel, and fired pistols lent their pollution to the air, and with a yell of battle-induced rage, Schuldich joined his current crew in staving off the intruders. His cutlass met countless times with many opponents, some attacks sending a jarring vibration through his arm, and some not, but he couldn't have cared less. He wasn't fighting for ship or treasure; he was fighting to stay alive, and that, to him, was the worthiest cause of all.

The images of bearded men and baby-faced boys soon became a forgettable blur in his mind as he continued to hack and slash at everything that came near him, and it wasn't until his breath began to sear his throat and his muscles started to burn that he slowly became aware of the lessening noise around him. With one swift strike of his blade, he easily pierced the yielding flesh of his present opponent and stopped to look around.

His fellow crewmembers had been all but decimated. A remaining few, including the captain, were still fighting, but the others had either already surrendered or were lying dead on the scarred boards. It didn't take anymore evidence for Schuldich to realize that further fighting would only prove fruitless, and so thinking, he halted his search for his next opponent. He had never been one for exerting excess energy with no self-beneficial result, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

Sword lowered, he turned once again to watch the struggling Spanish captain. The dark-haired man had apparently been conceited enough to engage the burly leader of the marauders, and even to the inexperienced eye, one could tell that the Spaniard was both out skilled and overwhelmed.

"Give up, you stupid bastard," the redhead muttered as he watched the sad display of swordsmanship. Even he, as a youth just learning to wield a sword from the best masters in Europe, had outshone the supposed seasoned captain.

The sounds of attack had slowly begun to wither away, forcing Schuldich to deal with the aftermath of post-battle weariness. All that anticipation, all that fervor and pent-up tension felt as if it had been siphoned from his body, leaving nothing but an empty shell. There were the few pirates who came at him when his idleness had become apparent, and he dispatched them easily with a few lackluster and mechanical movements, but the excitement and spontaneity of the moment had passed.

And then, it finally came.

The cry of surrender from the floundering captain halted the remaining skirmishes on board the ravaged ship, and letting out a quiet sigh of bored relief, Schuldich threw his heavy blade down. The ship's attackers cried out in victory at the capitulation, and the redhead took in the situation with an expression of blossoming interest.

Whatever happened next should prove fairly entertaining.

(***)

His knees landed hard on the unyielding wood, causing Schuldich to curse loudly enough that the men around him jerked back automatically. The irate redhead shot a deadly glare at the two culprits who'd shoved him so unceremoniously to the floor but the effect was minimal since the intended recipients had moved on to pulling in the next prisoner.

And he had thought that this would be entertaining?

Schuldich tugged experimentally at the rope binding his wrists, and again, a curse escaped his lips. Sailors may not have been the most intelligent beings to walk the earth, but they could damn well tie a secure knot.

A muffled grunt at his side drew his attention away from his bonds and to the events around him.

Those of the crew still alive had more or less been dumped on deck, a sad and sorry lot tied and kneeling before the marauding victors. It seemed like such a fascinating tableau: the tired and injured men all stooped in defeat as the gentle ocean breeze tickled their skin and the glorious blue sky looked on.

Schuldich chuckled silently.

He had never been much of an artist, and when he had taken an interest in art, his tastes had always veered toward the twisted variety.

"A waste o' time! There's nothin' on this damned ship!"

The deep bellow came from the other side of the deck, and at its sound, every man turned to look at the source.

The pirates' captain stomped angrily across the boards, his fury and course directed at his Spanish counterpart kneeling but three arms length away from Schuldich. 

Had there been one word to describe the man, it was _big_. His stature was big. His voice was big. His black beard was big. Even his nose was big.

Schuldich watched quietly as the large gap-toothed man moved to grasp the Spanish captain by the neck with his meaty hands and give him a hard shake.

"Ye ain't got nothin' on this ship," the pirate said loudly. "Bloody waste o' me time!"

But the Spaniard didn't respond; he just looked frazzled, the residual fear in his dark eyes visible to Schuldich, and undoubtedly, the whole crew.

"Tell me if ye hid any loot, and I might think about not guttin' ye," the burly pirate snarled into the smaller captain's face.

There was no response - only a cowed stare which prompted another hard shake.

The redhead wondered why the spineless Spaniard didn't say anything. From what he'd seen of the man, saving his sorry excuse of a life would've preceded all else.

And then it dawned on him.

The pirate had spoken in English. And the idiotic captain - not to mention the entire crew - hadn't understood a single bloody word!

By now, the large man had lost all patience, and had tossed the Spaniard back onto the floor. He turned away with a dark look and beckoned for a few of his men.

"Kill the crew an' sink the ship. Might as well have some fun since we didn't find no gold," he ordered, his deep voice loud enough for Schuldich to hear. "Start wit' ..."

"Wait!"

The redhead's exclamation halted all activity on the ship and drew every man's eyes on him, prisoners and captors alike.

Schuldich smiled inwardly, but kept his face solemn as he held the pirate captain's gaze. "There may be no gold on board this ship," he said in English, "but we were on a treasure hunt to find a dead man's fortune."

His claim had the pirate intrigued, or so it seemed as the larger sailor moved his bulk close enough for the bound man to catch the rancid odor that emanated from his captor's unwashed body.

"What's this? Who are ye and why should I believe ye?"

Expression still deceivingly serious, the redhead stared unwaveringly into the other man's inquiring blue eyes. "My name is Schuldich, and I speak the truth. Look at me. I'm not Spanish, and I bear no ties to these men save the fact that we all seek a buried treasure. And I can show you the way."

The lie slid glibly off his tongue like satin on skin, and he waited patiently for the large pirate to assimilate his words. He had no idea where the so-called gold was, but it was a detail he'd worry about when the time came.

"You can still have your fun. Kill the others and sink the ship like you originally intended. I don't care," Schuldich continued convincingly. "But keep me alive and I'll show you the way. If I fail, you can kill me as well. From the way I see it, you have nothing to lose from the venture."

The bearded man paused for a moment, deep contemplation etched clearly on his sun-beaten face.

From his kneeling position, the redhead let his eyes wander for a second. He caught the expectant look on the crew's faces at his recent negotiations, and bit his lower lip in an attempt to school his expression into impassiveness. Three years observing Crawford and he had all but conquered the game of deception.

"Done," the baritone reply finally came.

At the response, Schuldich let his lopsided grin appear.

It seemed as though he was making a habit of confronting intimidating captains.

(***)

"And where in bloody hell do you think you're going?"

Ken never would have admitted it, but he thought he sounded more like a nagging fishwife than a first mate at that very moment. In fact, with his face scowling in disapproval and an arm pressed against his hip, he knew he probably looked like one too. But if his stereotype was unwarranted, then it could all be blamed on the stubborn, half-clothed redhead in front of him.

He'd come into the captain's cabin to check on the then unconscious man, and what had he found but a very conscious Ran weaving to the door with a glint of determination in his eyes. And that only meant one thing.

"I need to get my ship ready to set sail," the redhead answered as if he were explaining the obvious to a five year old child. "And I would thank you to let me do my job."

Ken raised a dark eyebrow. "Really?"

With a look of skepticism creasing his forehead, he moved to stand before the injured captain, raised an arm, and pushed the redhead on the shoulder with an index finger. The force behind his movement wasn't much but it was enough to send Ran stumbling backwards until his legs hit the bed and caused the man to fall ungracefully onto the mattress.

"Ken! I - "

"You're in no shape to sail a ship,Captain," the younger man stated in his matter-of-fact tone. "You were shot less than a day ago. A strong wind could knock you over if you go up on deck."

Ran refused to meet his first mate's piercing gaze and turned his head away.

Pride was undoubtedly preventing the man from saying anything. Ken knew that, but he also knew that he was right. Still, there was no way the captain would openly concede that fact.

"Who was she, Ran?" he softly asked the question before he could give it much thought. The matter had been sitting on his mind since the rendezvous the night before, and had been forgotten during the ensuing crisis. But now that Ran was sitting, alive and whole, on the bed, he couldn't quell his curiosity.

'Who, Manx?" The redhead looked back at his first mate.

Ken nodded.

Ran let out a tired breath before replying. "She's an old friend," he explained. "She and her husband once saved me from an unfortunate situation with a Spanish merchant ship ... or what I'd thought was a merchant ship. It turned out to be a heavily armed military vessel dispatched to hunt down British sanctioned privateers."

The redhead paused for a moment and glanced down at the floor before meeting Ken's eyes once more. "It's safe to say, I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for Manx and her husband. I owe her my life ..."

Ken didn't make any comment at the explanation. Instead, he absorbed the story and the other man's earnest expression with an inscrutable look on his face. Then, he turned and made his way back to the cabin door.

"Where are you going?" Ran asked as he made to stand up again.

The brunette stopped briefly to throw a warning stare at the older man. "Stay in bed, Ran," he ordered, his voice very much that of an injured captain's first mate. "I'm getting your ship ready to set sail."

(***)

"Who are you?"

The voice was childish enough, clueless enough, and innocent enough.

Schuldich glanced down at the boy standing several steps away from him.

"Who am I?" he repeated back to the child.

He looked closely at his miniature companion. Bright orange-red hair and a mischievous blue-green gaze greeted his inspection, the complete and tiny package neatly wrapped in a small satin doublet and immaculate silk stockings. The boy looked quite the little gentleman, Schuldich thought as he turned his attention to his surroundings.

A vaulted ceiling, expensive buttresses, and gold-gilt and mirrored side paneling stared back at him in a show of frivolousness and overindulgence.

"Who am I," Schuldich quietly said again as he stared up at the ornately filigreed frames of the paintings that adorned the walls. A sense of sick realization began to creep through his body, and he returned his gaze back to the little boy. "I'm you," he said with a hint of sadness. "And this is the palace, isn't it? Back in Hohenzollern ..."

The words seemed to have been lost on the child, who shrugged his small shoulders and smiled slightly at the stranger.

"This is a dream, isn't it?" the older man asked the boy. The question was rhetorical, but he felt better for saying and re-affirming it out loud.

In response, the younger version of himself stepped forward and grabbed his hand, the heels of his neatly polished shoes clicking sharply on the marble-tiled floor.

"Come. Play with me," the child demanded.

And, like a puppet, Schuldich followed, the sheer vividness of the rich décor striking a nostalgic chord somewhere deep within him. Through long, winding corridors and countless chambers they walked, a boy leading him by the hand, their pace slow and steady ... until they passed by a partially opened door.

Here, the child stopped briefly and dropped his hand to listen to the voices that floated from the room within.

"But he's in line for the throne, Albert! If we can get rid of him, our claim would be that much more valid," the distinctly feminine voice said ruthlessly. The conviction and ambition behind the statement wasn't entirely lost on the unseen audience as it echoed through the door.

The boy turned to smile at his older counterpart, oblivious of the woman's insinuation. "That's my sister, Sophie," the child explained as if to a new friend. "She's much older than me, and she's talking to her husband, Albert."

"I know," Schuldich replied stonily, the fuzzy memories of the so-called sibling playing on the fringes of his conscious mind. "I remember ..."

But the child looked away as if he hadn't spoken and grabbed his hand again. Once more, he began to lead the older man down the corridor, step after clicking step, but this time, they didn't get very far.

"Your Highness! Your Highness!"

The frantic voice stopped the little boy in his tracks and Schuldich turned to see an old footman chase after them. The man was thin, his face gaunt and his eyes oddly protruding from their sockets, but he approached with a decorum that Schuldich remembered his father drumming into all the palace servants. Acting as if the older companion wasn't there, the footman addressed the young prince.

"Your uncle requests your presence in his chambers, your Highness."

Inexplicably, Schuldich felt his whole body tense at those words, but like before, the boy remained oblivious of the hidden meaning in the invitation.

Obediently, the child nodded and dismissed the servant.

And thus, forgetting about his older self, the small prince turned and started heading in the direction of his uncle's rooms.

Schuldich watched the boy go, the retreating sound of his expensive heels sounding like the constant beat of a far-off war drum in his head. Then, with a reaching arm that he knew was futile, he took one step in the direction of his younger self's path.

"No ..." he protested. But the word was weak, and by all accounts, useless now since the gravity of the years passed were unchangeable and irrefutable.

Still, he tried, however feebly.

"No, wait ... Don't go ..."

(***)

St. Augustine, Florida  
1597

It was the shouts from above deck that woke him.

Loud, rancorous shouts that played a symphonic cacophony in his ears yanked him violently from his slumber and dropped him into the painful light of reality.

And painful it was!

Schuldich rolled over from his side onto his back, and then pulled himself up into a sitting position. His muscles screamed in agony as he disturbed the bumps and bruises he'd acquired in the past few days.

The bloodthirsty pirates had definitely lived up to their sinister reputation. His old crew had been quickly slaughtered and now resided at the bottom of the ocean, but the death and destruction that the murderers enjoyed hadn't been enough. No, after dispatching what remained of the Spanish crew, and sinking the sorry ship, the pirate captain had allowed those energetic enough to give him a good beating.

"Hit all you want, boys," that man had said. "Jus' leave 'im alive so 'e can tell us where to find the treasure."

And Schuldich had told them. That was, he had told them some place to dock.

Having no idea where the Spanish captain had intended to sail, Schuldich had randomly picked a port to appease his captors. Once there, he'd intended to make something up if the need arose.

St. Augustine, he had informed the pirates, the city being the first one that came to mind when he'd searched for a Spanish settlement. He had remembered docking there with Crawford once, and hopefully, the place hadn't changed so much that he wouldn't be able to lose himself amongst the population.

And by the sounds that were drifting down to him, it appeared as if they'd docked.

He'd been relegated to the hold, wrists still tied in front of him, but relatively free to move about. Gingerly rubbing what he could of his hands to help with the circulation, he looked up and out of the open hatch. The clear blue sky stared back down at him, its vibrancy and limitless expanse taunting and mocking him with a ferocity that tore at his desire for freedom.

Achingly, he stood. He may have been tied, but that certainly wouldn't prevent him from trying to escape. And now that there was land, his chances of succeeding were infinitely greater.

Rung after rung, he slowly ascended the ladder, his beaten body protesting to the abrupt and awkward motion, and his sensitive eyes hurting from the sudden brightness. Yet, when he finally stood basking in the glorious sunshine on the ship's deck, all his trials seemed to have been momentarily forgotten.

But relief was usually illusory, and enjoyment dangerous - or so his life had taught him - and he mentally shook himself before quickly assessing his situation.

The deck was nearly deserted except for the three crewmen handling the immediate and necessary maintenance repairs to the sails. The captain and the rest of his crew were nowhere to be seen, all probably on land partaking of the local tavern hospitality. The furthest thing from their minds at the moment would've been some beaten quasi-prisoner sleeping in their hold. Schuldich had been at sea long enough that he understood what sailors desired the second they set foot on dry land.

All things considered, it seemed like the ideal time to slip away. The gangplank was but a quick run from him, and those remaining crewmen appeared too inattentive to even notice him.

Silently and surely, he padded his way to the plank, his course halted every so often with a furtive glance back toward the working pirates, and when he finally made it, he let out a muted breath of relief.

One step.

Two steps.

Three ...

He counted his steady departure from the boat, determined eyes cast on the dock in front of him, away from the ship behind him and the standing water below him. He was only several steps from freedom when the shout rang out ... one angry and surprised yell that started his heart pumping and his blood coursing.

Those bloody pirates had actually discovered his escape!

Without thought, he broke out into a run, easily traversing what remained of the plank and diving into the moving bodies of the docks. St. Augustine was a Spanish colony, one of the few that Spain had managed to maintain in light of Britain's expansion, and losing himself in the crowd would be all that much more difficult especially with his distinct coloring and bound hands.

But he had done this before - the running, the evading, and the hiding. He had done it so many times that he wondered if one day, he would ever stop having to do it.

He heard their heavy footsteps pound after him, incessant devils nipping at his heels, but he ran, swerving left and right, dodging here and there, until he lost all sense of direction and his body threatened to collapse from abuse.

Yet, he refused to stop, refused to check behind him, especially when his freedom was at stake. And so, re-doubling his efforts, he continued moving, his lungs and muscles cramping but still complying with his decision.

He didn't know when it happened exactly - perhaps it was when he'd left the docks, or perhaps it was when he'd darted in between two market stalls - but the angry shouts that had been pursuing him soon changed into a different sound ... that of clashing steel and muted grunts.

Hazarding a quick glance behind him, Schuldich tried to see what had altered his captors' chase.

From his perspective, he couldn't make out much, but the forms of his pirate pursuers had encountered a group of rowdy men - a group of rowdy and _irritable_ men at that.

He'd never been one to deny any of Lady Fortune's gifts, and he wasn't about to start now. Those men could fight with each other until all of them died for all he cared. He'd be a fool to wait and find out.

And so, smile on his lips, he turned. He turned and ran without looking back.

  
End Chapter 3  


  



End file.
